Origins of Legends
by Bub-Omb
Summary: Each champion in the League of Legends has their own story; something to make them a legend. This is a collection of the tales behind the different champions to tell of what they did to become a legend, and why they pursue enlistment in the League.
1. Author's Notes

~ To the reader

Heya, just a quick heads up on what this is here. As I am drawing nearer to finishing up my first fan fiction, Exaltation to Exile, I am finding that there are chapters that I have written that I will, unfortunately, not be able to include into the story either logically, or without making it unnecessarily longer. So, in the meantime, as I decide that chapters are unfit for Exaltation to Exile, I will post them here. For now, I will call it Origins of Legends, with the intention of being able to give introductions to different League of Legends characters that either will not make an appearance in Exaltation to Exile, or never got a full back story explained. So it will, essentially, be its own sort of collection of prequels. That being said, I intend to keep stories in Origins of Legends canon with Exaltation to Exile. There most likely will not be a huge amount of additions to this collection until my first story is finished, but I thought I'd leave the opportunity for readers to see a little more of what I have written, available. Some stories may just be one chapter long, and others may get future inspiration and expand. So for now, I am going to give the story an "M" rating to leave options for detail in terms of language, grotesque content, or adult themes more open, and I will just label each chapter with the champion it pertains to and a numerical to indicate the order it should be read in. However, I do not plan to make each of these stories intertwine with one another in the way that the different perspectives in Exaltation to Exile do. So, as always, enjoy and feel free to comment, follow, favorite, or even pm with questions, suggestions, or requests.

Thanks for the support! Bub-Omb


	2. Diana 1

Stripped of her armor and wearing nothing more than the rags that were thrown at her, she kneeled before the elders of the Solari clan. She had wanted nothing more than the peace of mind she gained when she sat alone on evenings, staring up at the sky. Its vast space of blackness shrouded her with company, and left her feeling at peace. She sought for comfort and found it in the moon. Perhaps it was something to do with her own past. Perhaps she was forced to remember how many times she had sat outside at night and stared blankly into space. Perhaps the comfort was in being a rebel, seeing as the Solari tribe, of which she was a part of, worshipped the sun and everything that it stood for.

A few days ago, the woman had recovered an artifact, or rather, a collection of artifacts. She had discovered their existence in her plight to prove that the there was strength to be found in the dim light that emanated off of the moon. She was the happiest woman in the world when she found it, and took it back with her to prove to the tribe that she was right all along. The artifacts were a suit of armor; dark in colors that consisted of purples and blacks. The armor fit her perfectly, being fairly tight against her skin and exposing little of it. It did not have a helmet, or shield, but it did contain an arch shaped blade; one that was reminiscent of the crescent formation that the moon took on a few times a month. The blade glowed a soft white, yet it was forged from a dark metal, just like the armor itself. However, upon returning to her camp she was not accepted as she had hoped to be. The elders of the clan stripped the armor off of her, leaving her naked; then they proceeded to throw rags at her, with the intention to cover her body as they planned to display her execution publically. She slowly put on her new set of clothes, attempting to delay the inevitable. She had no words to say. Not that she could if she wanted too; her throat was too weak from a combination of dampening tears and cries of agony. When she had finished, the elders dragged her into the center of the Solari's temple and pushed her to the stone ground, where she remained; wearing nothing more than rags and sobbing for her life. The elders began to speak of her and describe to the "audience" what she had done, and why the heretic must be destroyed. They made the point to beat her anytime she attempted to rise from her position, and repeated this act until she did have the strength to do anything more than kneel. She kept her head down, and thought about her past. All of the events that had led up to this point in time of her life. While the elders made their speech, she thought aloud, in whispers, her head spinning too much to allow a smooth steam of thought to course through it.

"I remember… a long time ago. Before the Solari had the protection that it does today… I was home. With my family. Everyone I knew and loved was around me. I felt peace, and comfort, as all children do. I couldn't have been more than five at the time. But I was old enough to understand and remember everything that was happening. We huddled around outside, happy and laughing. My father was a brave and strong Solari warrior; revered throughout the land as the leading power of the Solari's force. We were all… laughing. And playing. Enjoying our lives and the protection we thought that we had. The Solari tribe soon realized the errors of its ways after that night… never to instate just one man in charge of all of the forces…"

"As we sat and laughed and sang and danced, the day slowly turned into night around us. My parents suggested we go inside… get some rest. But most of us… me in particular… wanted to stay outside. I… I didn't want the day to end. I begged to stay outside longer, and they agreed. Soon, you could not see anything outside of the people directly in front of you. I remember… I remember a sudden blurring of vision. My family…. My family fell around me. One by one I heard their screams cry out into the darkness of the night. I sat and watched in horror as the assassin made his way around them, executing them quickly, and precisely. He had been watching… and waiting to strike. I had given him the opportunity of a life time. I kept them all out in the dead of night, silent and isolated… I stood up and walked to the edge of the small pond near to where we had been sitting. The assassin either seemed to ignore me or just decided I was not a threat. The soulless creature stabbed every member of my family, and every friend gathered with us that night. He finished his work and walked over to where I was standing. I looked into the lake and saw a light trickle of red seeping into the pure waters, spreading outwards like a tree growing into the open sky. I saw a reflection of myself and the blood of the ones I knew spreading over the image of my face. There was only one other thing in the reflection alongside me. In my deepest moment of despair, only one entity stood beside me. The moon was reflecting in its dark waters, shining next to my face as if it wanted to be nowhere else in the world. I waited for the assassin to stab me in the side, and add me to the collection of bodies. He looked down at me, and at the reflection in the water. He saw me, the blood pouring into the waters, the moon, and himself. I… cannot remember to this day what encouraged me to do so… but I yanked on his shirt as I stood at the water's edge… The yank pulled down his hood enough to allow his face to reflect in the water as well. I could not make it out due to the water's ripples, bloodied surface, and the shadow cast over his face. But the moon did all that I needed it to in that moment. The soft light that shone in the pond was what created that reflection. And the man looked into it, perhaps realizing his actions. He turned and looked at the bodies strewn all around him, and the life he had now left me in. He spoke to me. He… apologized. 'I'm sorry," he said before he slid away into the night. I'm sorry… What kind of words are those to one in my position? What kind of mentally deranged individual can just blow off their actions with an "I'm sorry"? If he is sorry, then it was a mistake. I am living in his mistake. I am SUFFERING for his mistake. And now… now…"

The elders had finished their preaching and had brought out a masked man with a large blade. He waddled over to my position and readied the blade to strike down their heretic. But the woman kneeling in front of him was still speaking to herself. Her voice grew gradually more and more audible.

"Now I am being executed for doing what I loved… despite the fact that it did not arm anyone. It saved me. It SAVED me. The glow of the moon is not to be ignored. Nor will it let itself be…"

The woman grinned, and the executioner paused. He looked at the elders with a confused expression; however, it was hidden behind his mask. The elders motioned to continue, and he started to bring the heavy blade down towards her skull. The blade made contact with a searing pulse of light that split the razor sharp edge into to two pieces. The woman stood, her bonds being shattered by the glow that then encompassed her entire body. A light insignia of the moon glowed in her forehead, matching her silvery white hair that fell to her sides in a long scraggly mess. Her skin was very pale, as if she refused to leave the shelter of shadows during the day. This was an oddity, seeing as most of the Solari bore a fairly dark complexion. She stood with her arms outstretched, and her head bowed. The glow grew stronger as the armor she had brought to the tribe slowly appeared around her. The dark metals reflected the light of the moon with such a beautiful glow that even a few of the bystanders felt envy. She held her right arm outward and clenched her hand as the crescent blade appeared inside of it. She turned her head sharply and stared down the Solari elders with a glare of hatred. Within an instant, she teleported through the open space and appeared in front of all of them. With a few quick and decisive strikes, she cut them all down and watched their limp corpses collapse to the floor with a loud thud. She looked around at the horrified people running and screaming.

"They do not understand… The strength of the moon…" She said to herself. She lifted her blade to the sky and pierced it into the stone below her. The ground began to glow as the entire temple shook and glowed the same glow that the woman did. It began to crumble and fall under the power of the moon. She unsheathed the weapon from the ground and fled. She had no idea where to go, and no direction to follow, but she was, for the first time in her life, free. She turned for a brief moment to look at the crumbling temple and all of the people fleeing it, without leaders or guidance; just as she had been many years ago. She bowed her head and spoke one last sentence before turning away for the last time.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.


	3. Graves 1

A man sat alone in saloon with his shotgun placed over the table in front of him. He stared blankly at the weapon and tried not to immediately associate its appearance with all of the events that had come along with it. He ran the back of his fingers across the length of its barrel and the skin of his knuckles felt out the engravings of the word "destiny": a word that felt so soft and light on his fingers, but its imprint sank so deep into his memories that the concept alone seared with pain. He continued his blank stare and did not bother wavering it with even as little as a sigh. He had no idea where to go or what to do, but he knew that he was not happy with his life and the paths he had taken. However, in the end, he accepted it. He was unsure if acceptance was what left him so blank, but he knew that he needed to find a new purpose, because that empty saloon was not where he intended to spend the rest of his life.

He swung his legs to the side and stood up. He glanced around the empty bar and let a smile erode over his face. He lowered his gaze and pulled his cowboy hat over his eyes so that he did not have to look at the mess he had left behind. After picking up his gun from the table, he stepped over the corpse of the first drunken idiot who had tried to start a fight, and weaved in and out of the rest. The entire place looked as if it had just survived a war; yet, the truth was it had just survived a mob and one angry man with a gun. He helped himself to a non-shattered beer from behind the bar tender's counter and walked out of the saloon. He expected that there would be some police coming to investigate soon enough, but he did not particularly care. He had spent such a long time in jail already that a little longer would not hurt him much. And besides, he had no intention of being caught.

He walked down the dirt road with the same mannerisms that he used before; his hat pulled over his face and his head bowed to cover his eyes. His shotgun rested on his shoulder in a way that seemed much too casual for its massive size. The man was well built and the heavy nature of the weapon could hardly be considered a deterrent for him. His short gristly beard was so tough that it scraped his hands when he rubbed his chin; not that it mattered, his hands and face were already covered in cracked calluses and healing scars. He walked out of the town without meeting a single person, and began walking into the open valley outside of civilization. He pondered the massive quantity of options that he had on routes to take. The most obvious one was to get his revenge on a man that had attempted to ruin his life. He had been a close friend and a good ally, but, just as the pair had done on many others in the past, the friend turned on him. As a result, he got to spend the next few years of his life in a prison cell, surviving off of sloppy meals and a bitter sting for revenge. And even though he had gotten out, he was not sure where he should go. He did not just want to walk up to the man and shoot his face to kingdom come. Odds are, he would het tricked and end up back in prison, without his gun, and with his previous friend standing there to laugh in his face. However, not a whole lot of options seemed to be presenting themselves.

He tossed aside the empty beer bottle with a moan. He had hoped that it would last for a slightly longer portion of his travel. Perhaps he would just seek another bar to sit at until someone looked at him funny. He opened his shotgun to the sound of a crack and a satisfying ping to indicate the empty shell flying from its old home inside of the weapon. The man pulled two new shells out and loaded them in before shutting the gun tightly. He had blown a fair amount of ammunition in the bar, but the soft jingle of metal and plastic in his backpack assured him that there was plenty more if needed.

His lonely walk towards nothingness was interrupted as an old acquaintance stood in his path. He chose not to say a word to the woman. In fact, he did not even acknowledge her presence as he marched along. She called out to him.

"Malcolm, where do you head?" she asked. He did not say a word to her and continued forward. As he passed her, she fell in line behind him and followed in silence. "Did you not hear me? Or perhaps you are too intoxicated?" Malcolm was persistent in his silent charade but the woman had no intention of leaving her question unanswered. "You are not talking to me. You have done something bad again, haven't you?"

"The hell's it matter?" he finally shot back.

"Your language is as foul as always."

"And you haven't stopped bitchin' at me yet. Guess it makes us even, huh?"

"That is hardly a matter to consider level…" the woman replied.

"Are you still here? Could ya get lost 'fore I kick your ass away?"

"You would not touch me," she told him. He did not respond immediately but he continued walking in the directionless vector.

"No ma'am. But why do you keep comin' back? I ain't nobody worth followin'."

"You have a good heart, Malcolm. I see that."

"Bullll shit. My heart was shot long ago. It's still beatin' simply cause I'm too damned stubborn to let it stop."

"While that may be true, that truth is, in itself, an admirable trait," the woman said. Malcolm let out a long and heavy sigh that was followed by more silence. The woman pursued quietly to see if he would respond, and piped up when she determined that he had no intention of talking anymore.

"Where are you going, Malcolm?" she asked again.

"Hell if I know. Away."

"That's hardly a direction."

"Look, I ain't got shit, okay? I ain't got my family, I ain't got a girl, I ain't got no friends, hell, only thing I got is this shotgun."

"You have faith, Malcolm," the woman said.

"Ma'am, I appreciate your courtesy, I really do, but I'm a long lost soul. There ain't no room for my faith."

"You tell yourself that…"

"I'm telling YOU that," Malcolm insisted.

"You have done good things Malcolm, I've seen you do them."

"Yeah? You see the pricks I filled with lead too? You see the shithead jailer I force fed the sorry end of my shotgun too? You seen the women I pillaged 'cause I wanted to?"

"These acts are forgivable." Malcolm stopped his march and turned the face the woman.

"Alright. I give. Whatchya you want?"

"You still have yet to answer me. Where are you heading?"

"I ain't goin' nowhere. I want to shoot that sorry son'bitch's head off of his damn shoulders, but I know I won't be able to."

"So, you should have no reason to object to my request?" the woman told him.

"No. Guess not. Whatchu want?"

"Come with me to Ionia. We need your help."

"The hell could you possibly need my help in particular for?"

"You have a will that cannot break, and the ability to fight like none other. We could use these characteristics." Malcolm was genuinely confused at this point, but he did not voice it. He stared at the woman following him and waited for her to explain more in depth. "You have been locked up for quite some time. Ionia has been invaded by the country of Noxus."

"And? Hell's it got to do with me?"

The people of Ionia are peaceful… we need warriors. Warriors who will not crumble at the sights of what Noxus is doing to my people."

"Karma…" Malcolm began. "I ain't never gunna understand your Ionian faith gibberish. But you win. I'll go with you." She smiled at him and nodded solemnly.

"Very well. We will need to head to a port and sail there. Which you have taken us in the opposite direction of."

"Ma'am, I'm no stranger to walkin'," Malcolm replied.


	4. Graves 2

Malcolm and Karma walked into the nearest port and made their way to the sailor's yard. Karma asked around to see if anyone knew of a ship that was headed towards Ionia and found one that planned to ship off shortly. The two made their way to the docks but a man stopped them from boarding the ship.

"Sir, I am going to have to ask you not to take the weapon on board," the man told Malcolm.

"And I am going to have to ask you to shove it up your ass and– "

"What he means to say is, he needs the weapon for where we are heading. Is there a way we can take it as luggage?" Karma interjected.

"You may enter ma'am, but I am afraid your friend here is too hostile. I cannot allow him to board with the other passengers."

"Hostile? You want me to show you hostile?" Malcolm shot.

"Malcolm, calm yourself. Sir, perhaps I can dissuade you?" Karma said as she handed a gold coin to the man barring their entry. His eyes opened wide at the money and he quickly swiped it up from his guest.

"Make yourself at home. Just try not to upset the other passengers. I assume you can keep him under control?" the man asked Karma.

"Absolutely," she said with a wide smile. Malcolm stared at the woman in disbelief as they walked onto the ship and made their way to its bow.

"I didn't know priestesses bribed," Malcolm stated as they stood and stared into the ocean.

"Anything to keep violence at bay." Malcolm expected the answer, it was in her nature. He thought back to some of the first encounters he had with Karma. He had no idea why the woman continued to put her faith into him, but she seemed to stick to him like glue. Malcolm hated spending time reminiscing, but he did so very frequently. Not much of anything that he did would not link back to some memory of his anymore, especially when he had a massive amount of waiting to do, like he did just then.

* * *

Malcolm stared at the rags around his feet as if they would turn into the fathomed ruby slippers enabling his exit from his hell. The bars in front of him taunted the soul of every individual looking upon them. Their rusted metal was almost as painful to see as they were to touch. The very fact that they were in a better state than he was, depressed him. The food he scraped from the bottom of his bowl like a dying dog reminded him of the mounds of fecal matter one would see left by the horses on the roadside. He heard a soft patter of footsteps in the distance and dropped his spoon to the ground; he was not about to let the jailer see him grasp at the pretend food in his bowl.

"Get the fuck away from me," Malcolm said before the man had even entered the room.

"My my, quite the disturbed individual are we?"

"I told you to GET THE FUCK AWAY!" the bearded man shouted.

"Tsk. Such a rude one. You don't know how much it will please me to watch your head roll off of the chopping block. You know, they say that the legal process is moving along quite quickly for you. It would seem that someone wants you dead very soon."

"They can bite my ass. I won't be dyin' on no one anytime soon."

"Oh, so you say," the jailer replied.

"Thresh, I told you kindly to FUCK OFF. I recommend you be adherin' 'fore I make ya." The jailer laughed menacingly at the man before rubbing his chin, letting the saggy skin get carried left to right with his grubby finger. He carried a loose chain with him for relatively no reason other than to give the inmates a fresh reminder of the fact that they were locked up for life. The man twirled it around like a jump rope and often times slung it over his shoulder. He wore the keys to the prison cells around his waist as if he wanted them to know that he held the only possible to ticket to freedom. He would often dangle them around in front of prisoners and, on occasion, give them the keys just trip them on their way out of their cells and whip their hides with the chain he wore. Overall, Thresh did not possess very many redeeming qualities.

Ignoring Malcolm's request, he continued to talk. "Malcolm, do you have kids at home? Perhaps a wife forever awaiting the arrival of her beloved husband? Or maybe you already know that she has abandoned you? Gone for a better man? Someone with more charm and less of a… criminal record?" Malcolm ignored Thresh's comments and sat in silence. His words did not affect him, seeing as he had no wife or kids.

"Not married hmm? Perhaps you just don't have the looks? Or maybe… Oh, I see now. It's your partner isn't it? The man with the card tricks and the fancy cowboy hat? He took your woman didn't he? Left your sorry ass behind? Shame. I'll bet she is twice as happy huh?" The last comment fired a cannon at Malcolm and he sprung to action in an attempt to punch Thresh in the jaw through the bars. The man was awaiting the movement and quickly stepped backwards to dodge the fist. In nearly an instant, he grabbed for the chain around his shoulder and whipped it through the crack in the bars. Malcolm's face seared with pain as the cold steel slashed at his face, ripping open a cyst in the process. A mixture of pus and blood poured down the man's face and dripped onto the rotten flooring beneath him. The blaze in his heart was inextinguishable and Malcolm threw his fist into the stone flooring. The impact did no damage to the ground, but the motion helped to relieve stress. He pounded the rock again and again and succeeded in doing nothing more than draw blood from his knuckles and coat his hands in pain. Thresh watched with eyes wide open as Malcolm punched the ground, and a smirk eroded over his face.

"He has gone mad!" Thresh yelled before cackling into the open air. "I thought I was the only one around here!" The jailer laughed with a morbid glee as he walked back out of the room. Whether or not he had come with any sort of intention, was left unknown and forgotten as Malcolm's insanity drove him away from the cell. After he had left, the outlaw leaned back onto his ratty feet and held his hands tight. The pain was not going to leave, but he did not want it to. He would rather the pain rest on his fists than in his heart.

"Don't let his words get to you," a voice called out. Malcolm sat unmoving as he responded to the voice.

"The hell do you keep coming back here. I ain't got nothin' for ya," he responded.

"But you do. You have a weary soul. I am here to help."

"Help someone who gives a damn."

"Malcolm you are harsh. Please, let me be of assistance." The man turned to face the woman speaking to him. Her name was Karma; an Ionian priestess who visited the jail in an attempt to help those facing execution to see a smooth transition to the afterlife. She dressed like a religious woman; wearing a white and purple gown that covered most skin down to her legs, which were fairly exposed from the dress's nature. She had a green tattoo that spiraled up her leg and resembled a dragon, generally believed to be the tangible form of the Ionian spirit. She wore a circlet around her head and a large metal adornment reached out from her back. A few of the pieces appeared to float in the air, most likely from some sort of magical enchantment. Parts of her gown were armored however, and this led Malcolm top believe that she did partake in fighting to some extent, but perhaps it was strictly to protect her people of Ionia. Her complexion was a little darker than his, being a fairly characteristic attribute of Ionians.

"Your garbage is garbage…" he muttered. Malcolm saw all of what Karma did as a spectacle, and did not want any part of the act.

"Excuse me?"

"I DON'T WANT NONE OF YOUR SHIT!" he shouted. The woman bowed her head and spoke softly to the man before her.

"Ask away," she replied.

"I ain't got no questions."

"Yes you do. Otherwise you would let me help you. So, what do you want to know? How can I make you a believer?"

"Ya can't; plain and simple." The woman sighed and crouched down to put herself at eye level with the man in front of her.

"Yes. I can." Malcolm stared her down as if his eyes shot bullets at her but she held strong in her gaze.

"Why the hell do people believe your garbage? Why would some greater power ever want anything to do with me?"

"The spirit of Ionia is not one to be reckoned with. Many have seen its power and have chosen to follow its guidance in respect."

"Well ain't that nice. But I ain't seein' nothin' happen 'round here but a sick bastard whip me and a cold meal get thrown my way. Or is this food from the Ionian spirit?"

"Some would believe it to be a blessing to still be alive at this point, Malcolm."

"Believe what they want, I ain't got shit. Might as well let me die. Only got a few days till they kill me anyways. All I gets ta do is spend 'em in here."

"You are missing the point Malcolm. You need to place your priorities on simpler things."

"Simpler than living? Shoot, I dunno how I'm s'posed to go down any further. Might as well go back to punching that floor. Might dig myself a hole outta here."

"That's hardly necessary or plausible. Your fists will break long before you get out." Malcolm allowed for a pause in the conversation as he drew in a large breath. Nothing he was saying would get rid of the woman, so he tried a new angle.

"With all due respect ma'am, I don't see what the point is here. Say I tell ya I'ma believe your hooha. Then what? I still rot for days then get my head cut off. Whoopdee freakin' dah." Karma smiled at the man and folded her hands.

"Say a prayer with me."

"A praa-what?"

"Don't be coy. Say a prayer. Fold your hands, close your eyes, and bow your head."

"Better fucking be beer and a shotgun when I open them…"

"Malcolm," she said in a rather commanding tone.

"Fuck it. Whatever. If it'll get ya ta leave." The man did as she asked, and his eyelashes batted the drying blood on his cheek as he closed his eyes. He could still feel a soft stream of liquid dripping onto his folded hands as he waited for Karma to continue with her ritual.

"Dear heavenly spirit of Ionia," she began. Malcolm let out a soft snort but she ignored his action and continued. "We pray to you today in hopes that you help aid this soul into the future. Whether it be through methods of survival or the power for his life to end in a peaceful demeanor, is not our choice to make. Your decision aside, we wish for you to bless this soul for the next few days and insure his passage be a safe one. In the name of Ionia, we pray."

"Amen," they said in unison. She smiled widely at him as she stood from her crouching position.

"You are a better man than you think yourself to be, Malcolm."

"You waste your time with me Karma," he replied.

"I do not believe so," she stated before leaving the room.

"You know that I'ma kill that jailer the next time he comes around, right?"

"I know nothing of violence," she called out to Malcolm before her path took her completely out of earshot.

"Don't matter if you don't know it, cuz I sure as hell do," he whispered to himself before making his way to the sorry excuse for a cot in the corner of his cell.


	5. Graves 3

A few more days passed as Malcolm and Karma awaited their arrival to the island of Ionia. The two did not converse a whole lot, seeing as Malcolm spent most of the time to himself, drinking in the ship's dining area. A few fights were about to break out before Karma intervened to diffuse the drunken situations. Passengers learned quite quickly just to avoid Mr. Graves in general; mostly for their own safety.

It was late afternoon as the Island started to come into view. Karma sat down at the table with Malcolm and the man remained silent.

"How have you managed to spend the entire trip down here?" she asked.

Time flies when you're too drunk ta notice." Karma rolled her eyes at the response and opened up a map onto the table between them, before pointing to a marked location on the paper.

"We will dock here. The General will give you his orders before dusk. Are you prepared to fight? The Noxians are unlike anything you've ever fought."

"I doubt that," the outlaw muttered. Ignoring his comment, she continued to inform him.

"The Ionian people are broken and scattered. Please be kind and courteous to them. Even so much as a smile can fill them with hope, while a cold shoulder could break their will. Save your bitter attitude for the battlefield where is needed." Malcolm was very unaccustomed to taking orders, and chose to stay silent to her request: he did not want to make any promised he could not keep. Instead of replying, he took out a bag of crushed tobacco and rolled it up with a separate leaf of the same plant. He pulled out a book of matches and sighed as he took the last stick and rubbed it against his jeans. It snapped in half in his hands and the broken twig fell through the crack in the floorboards. Malcolm held the partial match up to his face and stared at it blankly. Karma chuckled lightly at the man stuck in total disbelief.

"Halarious…" he grumbled.

"Quite the opposite," she sympathized while pulling a small gold and silver square out of her dress, placing it just in front of her ally. Malcolm took the trinket in hand and pressed its edges firmly. The top of the square flipped open, held on by a hinge, exposing a wheel and a spout. Sliding his thumb across the wheel, the spout licked up a small flame that he used to ignite his cigar."It's a little device I got from Piltover. They simply call it a lighter. I have found it to be quite handy, personally."

"That damn city never ceases to impress me," Malcolm muttered while gently patting the shotgun across his lap. He leaned back in his booth and enjoyed his smoke, while Karma sat and watched. "Does smoking bother you ma'am?" he asked. Karma shook her head in response.

"No, smoking and burning plants and incense is quite customary in Ionia, for ritual purposes and simple relaxation alike." The comment drew a grin from the outlaw as he tosses his bag of tobacco and lighter her way.

"Help yourself." Smiling, the priestess rolled up her own cigar and happily relaxed alongside her soon-to-be soldier.

* * *

The boat pulled into Ionian port as the sun began to fall behind the tree littered horizon. Malcolm and Karma were the last two passengers to walk off of the ship, simply due to the man's laziness prohibiting a sooner exit. The crowd walking off in front of them consisted of mercenaries in far over their head, people trained in medical arts and healing magics, and a few small groups of soldiers; which would explain the boat greeter's hesitance to allow Malcolm onboard in the first place.

Just feet into Ionian soil, Malcolm and Karma were welcomed by an Ionian general; the pentagon of stars lining his vest gave his ranking away. Much to Karma's surprise, the outlaw did salute the Ionian upon approach. Karma chose to say her hellos with a bow; a more customary greeting from a priestess. The general returned both gestures and launched straight into business. He spoke with both hands held firmly behind his back. His face was fairly blocky, being clean cut and housing short black hair. His complexion was lightly tanned, much like Karma's, and he wore a thick pair of rectangular glasses on his face.

"Malcolm Graves I presume?"

"Yeah," Malcolm replied simplistically.

"General Kai. How well informed are you? Do you know what hellhole you have just stepped into?"

"I reckon I do. Pro'ly just a shitfuck of shit. Nothing I ain't accustomed to."

"A shitfuck of shit. Well said soldier." It was obvious that the phrase "soldier" was one Malcolm was going to have to get used to. He had never fought for someone else before; just his own lust and greed. The general gestured to a group of infantry men standing at attention to his right.

"You will be traveling with these men until I give further orders. They will take you to a village in the north named Novar. Noxian troops are presumed to be on the way as we speak. I hope you are well rested. For now, your objective is simply to hold the town while the civilians leave. Any questions?"

"No sir," Malcolm replied. The general dismissed them with a nod and ran off towards the boat. Malcolm looked over and saw a very large number of Ionian refugees shoving and bustling to get on board. Kai was attempting to assist and organize the situation to insure the safety of the passengers.

"This is where we part, for now Malcolm," Karma said to her ally. He nodded and walked towards the group of soldiers still standing and ready. He lolled about for a few moments before one of the men looked at Graves quizzically.

"Sir?"

"What," Malcolm stated.

"Um… our orders?"

"Hell, they put me in charge?"

"Erm, yes. Did General Kai tell you where we are headed?" the soldier asked, clearly getting more nervous the longer the conversation persisted.

"Yeah, goin' to uh..." The outlaw paused to scratch his stubbly chin. The group of men exchanged worried looks before he remembered the name. "Novar. North to Novar. Gotta defend 'em, let the people get out." The soldiers nodded and turned about to lead the way; quite confident that their new commander had no idea where he was going or what he was doing. Malcolm did not mind: he just wanted to shoot whatever it was that he was supposed to, and move on.

The small army arrived at Novar and saw a flurry of people bustling about in a frantic attempt to get their belongings gathered up and moved out. Very few children were left in the town by that point in time, but it was quite obvious that not everyone was willing to give up the lives they had lived for so long. Some were too afraid to travel to Valoran, unsure as to whether or not anything was truly waiting for them in such a foreign land.

After ordering a soldier to watch the horizon and wave when he saw troops, Malcolm turned to watch the citizens frolic about the town of Novar. The Ionian warriors under his command sought to help them in their escape, but the outlaw simply stood and waited for the Noxians to arrive. He had never been a people's person, and nothing was going to inspire him to become one on that day.

Nearly half an hour passed as the last of the citizens made their way out of their homes and fled south to the refugee ship dock. The soldier standing watch turned and waved his hands frantically in indication that a threat had arrived. One of the men under Malcolm's command looked his way, wearing the same worried expression he held previously.

"Do we fight them?" he asked nervously.

"Yeah. If we don't, then they'll chase the people we jus' helped leave," Malcolm replied.

"Yeah… You're right. Okay…" The soldier was clearly not very confident in his ability to hold the town, and honestly, neither was Malcolm: he simply did not care. He was there to help the people and Ionia. If soldiers were lost, regardless of the side, the outlaw did not plan to fret, so long as his mission was accomplished.

"Nearly two hundred Noxians are approaching our position sir," the watch guard informed him. "Orders?"

"Hang tight men. 'Bout to get into some nasty shit," he replied as the army made its way into clear view of Novar.

* * *

Malcolm sat behind the same pile of rubble for nearly an hour as he continually slung shot after shot into the approaching Noxian army. He knew all too well just how many of his ally Ionians had fallen around him, but he did not particularly care. Pumping lead into the giant mass and watching it slowly dwindle down in size was more than satisfying for him.

"The hell are reinforcements comin'…" Malcolm muttered to himself questioningly, suspecting that General Kai did not intend to leave Malcolm and the small squad of Ionians to stand against the two hundred Noxians alone. He looked around to his sides to see what kind of shape his army was in. Not to his surprise, there were not any Ionian soldiers left standing in the town. Noxian troops pushed on his location from the front, and a few were beginning to flank from the sides. Grinning, the outlaw blasted the flanking Noxians to pieces with two quick shots and turned to find cover a further distance back that would make it harder for the enemy to sneak up on his sides.

He vaulted a broken portion of a house's wall, still soaked in a mixture of different bloods from the previous battles it had seen. Malcolm glanced over his makeshift cover to see what he was up against; an army of at least a hundred Noxian's still marched towards Novar with expressions of determination and bloodlust. The town was completely empty aside from Grave's himself, who contemplated his options. He could retreat, knowing that his job was done of securing the safety of the villagers – whether or not that had been an entirely successful endeavor – or he could stand his ground and fight off as many troops as he could. The cold metal of his shotgun barrel transitioned to a searing steel as he ran his dirty fingers up its choke. A smile cracked through the shaggy facial hair he wore and the answer became fairly clear to him: Destiny was not about to quit on Malcolm, and Malcolm was not about to quit on Destiny. A quick jingle of his shotgun slug pouch assured him that there was hardly a reason to back down so soon. He unstrapped the spare belts of ammunition from his chest and laid them on ground beside him, counting the shots he still had left outside the pouch.

"Twenty-four…" he grumbled. "Only one thing better than twenty-four…" Malcolm cracked open his shotgun and let the empty shells clingle to the ground before he sorted the used ones from the clean ones. He found only one of them was still good to use, and pushed it to his pile. The man grabbed all of the shells out of his sack and reloaded Destiny with them. Each slug gave a satisfying click as he shoved them into his weapon, causing his smile grow successively wider. Closing the high ammo capacity chamber with a sharp snap, he took aim over the broken barrier to the dark silhouettes of the pressing soldiers.

The cocking of the gun echoed out to the dark surroundings loud enough to warn the soldiers of what was to come; but not fast enough. The proceeding gunshot boomed through the air in a deafening eruption before the slug landed in the poor sap sorry enough to lead the pack marching on Malcolm's location. The penetrated shot exploded out and engulfed every soldier within a fifty foot radius in a blazing inferno. The soldiers screamed in agony as their bodies were ripped to shreds from the sheer force of the blast. However, this was not the entire army, so Malcolm shot again. And Again.

His shotgun's ammunition continued to spray hell itself at the oncoming Noxians until the not a soul rested on the horizon. He emptied the last of explosive shell into his hand and reloaded Destiny with his normal rounds. The bombshells he had just let loose were sure to bring someone's attention soon, but in the meantime, he could lean back and enjoy a cigar, looking out into the heat streaks polluting the black Ionian sky, smiling merrily at the destruction he had caused.


	6. Graves 4

"No Karma, I have not seen him or any of the troops I sent to Novar."

"But General Kai! They are your soldiers an Ionian people! Are you just going to abandon them?"

"Abandon is not the right word. They did their duty; the citizens made it out. This is war, and sacrifices have to be made."

"Can't we at least send someone to go check?"

"What's the point? You heard those explosions just as well as I did. It's most likely that the Noxians just leveled the town completely. If that's the case, sending soldiers there would just be more casualties. We still have more towns to evacuate and we can hold their lines just as well as we could hold Novar. The answer is no Karma. I am sorry that your soldier was more average than you thought."

"You are wrong. He is no average soldier. He is no average man," she stated, making her way north towards the town of Novar.

"Where are you going?! Karma! It's suicide!"

"We will prove you wrong." The General rolled his eyes and stared down the path she was about to travel. Sighing, he bounced forward and fell in line behind her.

"Why do you trust that lost soul so much?" Kai asked her. She smiled and bowed her head.

"Let me tell you a story," she began. Her words wove through the air, painting the scene for the General, as the two of them marched northwards.

* * *

The rough cotton scrapped Malcolm's face as he pushed the pillow to a potentially more comfortable position. Grumbling in frustration, he threw it against the jail cell's bars and heard a laugh in response.

"They execute you tomorrow," echoed Thresh's disgusting voice. "I thought that I'd stop by and say hello to a good friend of mine."

"Keep movin' asshole, cuz he ain't around here," Malcolm replied. The man cackled at the response and walked closer to the gates holding the outlaw in.

"Your bitter soul makes me smile Malcolm. Oh how I wish I could just scoop it out of your body as your head rolls off of the chopping block. Would be wasteful to dispose of such a... 'unique' spirit."

"Go to hell." The comment made the jailer laugh once more as he dangled the keys in front of Malcolm's face.

"Go on, dog. Take them. Run to freedom. If you think you can." The man behind the bars simply watched the rusty metal pieces swing back and forth in front of him as lay, emotionless. Thresh frowned at the action and dropped the keys to land beside the man's bed. "Whoopsie!" he taunted. Malcolm shook his head and rolled over on his cot to stare at the wall. The lack of the uncomfortable pillow made resting even more impossible, but anything to turn his face from the jailer was acceptable to him at that moment.

"Grab the damn keys and GO!" Thresh shouted, clearly less then pleased. Malcolm ignored the demand and received a sharp whip to the backside from the man's chain. "MOVE!"

"Stop at once!" Karma told him, entering the room just then.

"Ah... The Ionian priestess. Dedication to seeing lost souls become more lost until they die. What grandeur of illusion you display. What brings you here today, hmm? Perhaps you wish to talk to this whelp before he can't respond any longer?" Thresh's words cracked through the air like his chain whip, but Karma paid them no mind. She kept her head bowed and continued with her mission.

"I would like to talk to the prisoner for awhile. May I?" The Ionian woman had no need to request an audience, but she tended to ask Thresh regardless to avoid confrontation with him.

"Bah, fine. But quickly. Him and I have yet to conclude our discussion."

"What is it?" Malcolm asked.

"Face me when you talk," Karma told him. He gripped, but did as she asked, rolling the freshly made wound across the wooden cot's rotten exterior. He cringed at the pain, but made no comment; showing Thresh that his actions caused injury was the opposite of what Malcolm wanted to do.

"Ah, trained the dog well have you?" the jailer said. The two ignored his comment and stared for a few moments until the priestess spoke up.

"You told me that he would be dead. What happened to that promise?" she teased.

"Kill me?" Thresh laughed for the next minute in expression of the humor he found in the concept.

"I guess I've been feeling generous." Malcolm's statement seemed to surprise Karma. She clearly did not see the idea to be as ridiculous as Thresh presumed it. Remaining in silence, the outlaw watched her carefully, waiting for her to say something else. No response came, but he saw her eyes dart from his, to the ground where the keys lay, a few times in a row. Malcolm had no idea what she planned to do, but at that point in time, he was willing to trust her.

Malcolm moved quickly as he lunged for the keys and then the door to his cell. Thresh smiled menacingly and revved up his chain in preparation to whip the escapee; however, he moved to slow to react to the Ionian woman's actions. She fired a spell at the jailer that connected the two together, as a channeling of energy locked his body in place. Malcolm took flight out of cell and down the hallways of the old prison, searching for his shotgun, Destiny. Before he had rounded the first corner, Karma called out to look for the room on his right. He spotted what she was talking about and unlocked the door to find a room full of weapons and trinkets. They were either things that had been confiscate over the years by Thresh and held on to as trophies, or simply a room of possessions waiting to be disposed of post-execution. Regardless, his gun was lying in plain view atop a desk on the far side. He picked it, along with a sack of shotgun shells and two belts of ammunition, up and walked out of the room.

Just in front of him, he saw Karma fleeing around the corner, being perused by a very aggravated jailer. Graves knew his next action long before it happened as he cocked the shotgun back and took aim at the ground by Karma's legs.

"Duck," he barked at her. The next instant a sharp crack rang through the hallways as Destiny's scattered bullets found their way into Thresh's legs, just over Karma's crouched person. The jailer fell to the ground in a yelp and Malcolm walked over to look down to the fallen guard.

"Hey Thresh, I got a question for ya," Malcolm stated. Smiling, the cripple man looked up at the shotgun being held to his face.

"Oh? And what would that be?" Thresh asked, with the usual riddling tone to his voice.

"Fuck you." Malcolm's words were closely followed by a second shot that tore into the jailer's torso and left a scatter of lead in the floor all about the man. The impact was not well place enough to kill the man, but the outlaw did not want it to be. Grinning in victory at the bleeding, wheezing man at his feet, Malcolm tossed his keys into the cell of a nearby inmate watching the scene. The man simply looked to the keys in disbelief and joy as Graves turned to leave the prison.

"Haaave fun!" he called out behind him, knowing all too well that the other members of the prison would not have the same amount of mercy on the jailer as Malcolm did.


	7. Nautilus 1

"Are you certain that you have to go? I really don't like the idea…"

"Honey, it's what I do for a living. Why would this be any different from all of the other ocean's I have charted?"

"It shouldn't… but… I don't like where the request is coming from."

"The Institute of War? Why would that be a deterrent?"

"I just…"

"Do you not trust them? They are trying to settle conflicts and reduce war! How could they possibly be setting me up by exploring an ocean?"

"I suppose you are right. I will help you pack your things. How long do you need to be gone?"

"We venture to the Guardian's Sea, leaving by sunrise tomorrow. It's not even the full length to Ionia; they just want us to go further east than a traditional route would go. I can't imagine being gone more than a few weeks." She nodded in response before giving her husband a hug and continuing to pack up the rations he would need while at sea, and checking that all of his diving gear was packed and ready to go. She kissed his diving gloves before stowing them away in the suitcase, causing the man to grin.

"Never dropped a thing with those gloves on, or lost a grip," he told her.

"I know, it's because I never let you leave without giving them my love. You will never lose your grip, and I will never lose you." The husband smiled and gave her a kiss. They finished packing his belongings and went to bed before he embarked on his journey.

* * *

The sky was beautifully lit from the sun beaming over the ocean's waves in the distance, illuminating the man's ship and bringing a smile to face. He enjoyed traveling the sea almost as much as he enjoyed being at home with his family. It was an occupation that he held no regrets in pursuing.

"Captain Nautilus! Are you ready to embark?"

The captain looked at the lad calling out to him, and then back at the luggage, including the massive diving suit, that his wife had helped him pack. He smiled and nodded to the boy before picking up the pace and walking onto the ship. Glancing around at his crew he noted that they looked fairly standard to him, ages ranging fifteen to forty, all male, and most dressed poorly but at the same time, properly for traveling the ocean. One man stood out from the rest, wearing a cowboy hat and jeans, and staying to the corner keeping very quietly to himself. Nautilus did not think much of it, but planned to keep his eye on him nevertheless.

The captain unloaded his belongings into the captain's quarters, and set things up to make himself comfortable. He was always at home inside of his ship, and was glad that the Institute of War was willing to let him use his own vessel, even if the crew was not his usual. After tidying things up, he walked back out to the main deck and smiled at the helmsman.

"Well what are you waiting for?!" Nautilus called out in his deep, but kindhearted, tone. He got a nod in response and the anchor was raised, the sail was lowered, and the ship embarked into the vast oceans before them. The bow cut through the blue water and sent it coursing halfway up the sides of the ship, making an all too familiar sound to Nautilus, reassuring him that he truly was at peace while sailing.

* * *

The next few days passed fairly quickly as the crew made their way deep into the Guardian's Sea, just north of Bilgewater where they had departed from. Nautilus kept his charts about him as he sketched in rocks and any visible terrain among the water. He had his map set up in a grid so that, knowing the speed of the ship relative to the water, he knew when they had traveled from one box to the next, and where to place the things he saw. For the most part, the map was empty space. Not much more than water expanded the distance they had traveled, but that did not deter Nautilus. He wanted to go home to his wife, but the solace he acquired while at sea kept him from rushing through his work and completing a task while journeying; most likely the reason that the Institute had chosen him for the task.

From the crow's nest, a sailor called out to the captain.

"Look ahead! 'bout four miles north!"

"Four NAUTICAL miles…" the captain murmured to himself. He got to the front of his ship and peered out to see what the man was calling out for. A black substance oozed from the water's surface as time went on, seemingly spreading out to gradually cover more area. "Pull us close!" Nautilus yelled to the helmsman.

"What?! Are you crazy?! I ain't going near that crap!" Nautilus' expression shifted from one of curiosity to one of distaste. He turned about and shot a glare at the man steering the wheel and seemed to petrify him with it.

"WHAT did you just say to your captain?" he replied.

"Nu… Nothing sir!"

"T'was what I thought…" The boat slowed as the crew came close to the goop and by the time they let down the anchor, the blacked waters nearly licked up the sides of the vessel. Nautilus peered into it and tried to determine what it was. He had been instructed to explore and record anything he had found. Being unable to see through the surface, he decided someone would have to venture into the liquid.

"Who's going in eh?" Nautilus questioned his crew. The mass of sailors had encompassed the perimeter of the ship closest to the dark swamp, trying to get a closer look. Upon hearing the question, many backed away and stood around looking at one another with worried expressions.

"No takers? What a rotten bunch of pussies…" The captain pushed past his "crew" and moved to his quarters to don his diving gear. Knowing how difficult it is to walk on land with the suit on, he dragged the case towards the edge of the ship and dressed there. A few, more brave, men assisted him in equipping the armor in near silence. He shifted his weight over the rail of the ship and prepared to jump in, beginning to fasten the recovery cable to his gear. The boat rocked violently and forced him to drop the rope. Noting that all of his men had backed away from the edge in fear, he began to vault the rail back on board to grab the clip himself. He found the maneuver more difficult than he had expected, but a sudden realization of something amiss dawned on him; he had dropped something with his gloves on.

Frantically, he tried to shift his massive weight over the side once again, but found that he was completely incapable of movement. A sharp tug around his waist brought him away from the ship and towards the blackened waters. Feeling around his waist, he noticed some sort of tentacle gripping his body and yanking him towards the goo. He grabbed hold of the railing and clung as best he could. The being holding him rattled Nautilus and the vessel as one in an attempt to loosen his grip.

"HELP!" Nautilus cried."Give me your hand!" A few men rushed to the side of the ship, but not to assist him. They began stomping on his hands and attempting to wrench him free of the railing.

"NO, STOP! PLEASE!" Nautilus shouted. The sailor's grim expressions remained unwavering as they heard a roar from the water's below them. Among the men attempting to destroy his grip, the man with the cowboy hat emerged, holding a golden colored card in his. The captain peered into his eyes with anxiety and hoped that the man was able to save him from the shallow grave that awaited.

"Never lost your grip huh? Sorry partner, you're lucks just run dry." The man tipped his hat and flicked the card at Nautilus' hands. The moment the two came into contact, the captain lost all feeling in his fingers and they slipped away from the rail, and the diver was lost beneath the black waters. A few moments later, he regained motion and grabbed onto the anchor. The metal chain holding it to the vessel creaked and groaned in the tug of war game the creature played with it. Nautilus tried to cry out for help once again, but nothing more than a watery murmur sputtered forth before he heard the steel give one last groan and fracture into a glittering of pieces that decorated the dark waters above the diver.

The crew stared blankly at one another, deciding whether or not to condone the man with the card for having sacrificed their captain. Before any of them could make a decision, they noticed that he had disappeared completely from their ranks. The boat continued to rock for a few moments in an attempt to settle upright, while bubbles erupted from the muck in gentle reminder that there was still a man beneath its waves, screaming and struggling for life.


	8. Nautilus 2

The water was a cold reminder of loneliness as Nautilus awoke, miles beneath the surface, completely blinded by the lack of light around him. Instinctively, he reached to flick the switch for the flashlight on his diving gear's helmet. His memory was a blur, and the action did not feel natural. He shifted his arm left to right and curled his fingers. It was easier than it should be, feeling as if nothing was restricting his motions. Momentarily setting down his anchor, he scratched one hand with the other and felt not the drag of a glove against the back of his hand, but the scratch of his fingers against his skin. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, deep in thought. Nothing sat on his mind, and he could not fathom where he was. After opening his eyes, a ray of light shot forward to illuminate the ground immediately in front of him.

Nautilus picked one foot up and lurched it forward. The movement was awkward and slow, but it was progress. One after another, he hauled his legs across the ocean floor. The fish swimming around him seemed absolutely terrified of his presence, swimming furiously in the opposite direction as he approached. Even larger aquatic animals such as sharks and squids reacted in the same manner.

Clomp.

The echoing shockwave of his own footsteps troubled him. He could feel the ground literally crumble with every step, feeling ten times heavier than he ever had, even with the added weight of the anchor taken into consideration.

Clomp.

He was not quite sure as to why he was still holding onto the tremendous anchor, he also had no reason to put it down. The fact that he was holding onto a severed anchor alone was perplexing enough. Setting it down and leaving it behind seemed like nothing more than a setback to understanding his situation.

Clomp.

The waters around him were of no navigatable use. Every inch looked just like the next, and Nautilus could barely cling to a sense of direction as he marched through the liquefied hell. He could feel the cool waters around him, cold from the lack of sun's warmth in the deep, but he had no idea how. His skin did not chill like he knew it should, but he could still feel his surroundings. It was as if the diving suit were one with him.

Clomp.

A littering of wood and metal polluted his view forward, standing out drastically from the black depths he had been seeing. A few stray corpses could be seen as specs, floating along the presumed top to the water. The sight was oddly reassuring, being a definite upwards direction.

Clomp.

Nautilus noticed some familiarities to the debris about him. He knew what it belonged to but the memory was resting just out of mental reach. Even after digging deeper and rattling his brains, he came up empty handed. To combat, he grabbed a mass drifting nearby and inspected it thoroughly. Gears shifted positions as his memory clicked into place, defining the wreckage as his own ship.

Clomp.

Nautilus tossed the part of his own desk aside and he continued onward. The reference point was at least beneficial as he continued forward, but he still had no idea what cardinal direction he marched. Land would become close eventually, and so he pressed onwards.

Clomp.

…

Clomp.

…

Clomp.

* * *

The shore came into view after an eternity of marching forward. No one seemed to notice the goliath emerging from the ocean floors, one small step at a time. Walking on the surface was much easier than attempting to progress underwater. The lack of pressure made for productive movement, and the toll it had been taking upon Nautilus was becoming quite clear as his feet broke out of the water's thick grasp.

A slight ways in front of him was a worn down tavern that he decided to search into. The inside was far from welcoming; windows were broken and the floors were still wet and partially flooded in some areas from being so close to the shore. Very little light shone in, apart from the sun's rays that crept throw the shattered windows and refracted about the room into random areas that prevented a clear view of any one object about him. The room he stood in held a turquoise hue and many barrels, crates, and wooden tables were strewn about as if it was supposed to have a nautical theme for its guests.

The diver wondered how he was not hungry, and how he was able to walk such a great length without any fuel or energy; it had to be some sort of magical force flowing through him. Nautilus never had any control on mana before, but perhaps the tar he was dragged into was to blame for spontaneous empowerment.

Standing inside the tavern, Nautilus heard scurrying from far corners of the room, and frantically looked about. Nothing could be seen, so he decided to take a seat on a nearby barrel. The wood creaked and splintered under his weight, but the metal bands held strong. He felt as if no one else was in the room, but he kept hearing odd noises regardless. The murky water beneath him was swaying with time, so he assumed the motion was causing sounds to echo throughout.

Nautilus set down his anchor and rubbed one arm with the other, tugging on his gloves to try and take them off since he was no longer submerged. It felt like he was attempting to yank of his skin, so he quit and stared at the flooring. Nautilus heaved out a heavy sigh as he sat but locked up immediately afterwards; his own voice was unfamiliar to him. It held the usual deep tone, but it was difficult to speak and what did come out held a strange resonation to it. Part of him wanted to call out to the room so that he could listen to himself, but if there was something clambering about, making more noise was sure to attract it. Against his better judgment, he spoke up.

"Hell-ooo?" He got no response. "Nooo onesss heeere..." he muttered.

"Are you sure?" a voice asked in response. Nautilus jerked upright, his metallic suit's joints creaking with the sudden motion, and twisted around to find the source of the predator.

"Never, lost, your grip," it taunted. The words sounded familiar but he could not place a meaning to it.

"Never, lost, your grip. Grip on what Nautilus? Sanity?" The words stung until his brain shot out an answer; the man with the cards had said them before stunning Nautilus' hands and leaving him to plunge into the dark ocean. The following events were a blur, up until he awoke underwater in his suit.

"Never lost your grip on... your family perhaps?" An image appeared before Nautilus and his heartstrings suffered a sharp tug.

"My... Familyyy..." Nautilus stared at them, gaining a feeling of anxiety the longer he stared.

"Falling short of breath Nautilus? Drowning, perhaps?" the voice chanted. The captain began to gasp for breath before instinctively clawing at his backside to see if his oxygen tank was damaged. He felt around for seconds until he realized that there was no tank attached to him at all. It seemed impossible, seeing as he had just traveled along the ocean's floor for what seemed to be eternities, unless his hunch about a magical or mana induced influence had taken seed inside of him. Realizing his panic was pointless, Nautilus spoke to the entity wrapping him.

"Wherrre isss my familyyy?" he insisted, hoping the thing would give him a straight answer.

"How long does a family last, with no provider, no father, no income?"

"No..." The diver muttered, approaching the image of his family before it faded out. "Whaaat nightmaaare arrre yooou?"

"Am I your nightmare? You look more like mine," the voice stated. The water where the captain's family had stood showed him just what the monster was talking about. His reflection was one of horror; he wore no face, just a black shadow masked by the diver's helmet he wore. His eyes were a deep red and shone outwards from the hull like flashlights, and the rest of his person stood as a horrendous metallic figure. "Never, lost..."

"STOOOP!" Nautilus shouted as he hurled his anchor into the darkness. It crashed into a wall and wood splinters shot out in every direction. The diver covered his face from the shrapnel with his arm and heard a laugh ringing out at him. Nautilus bowed his head and listened intently. His hearing let the sound reverberate throughout the room like sonar and he shot his cupped hand outward to choke slam the creature to the floor. Sawdust and moldy water leaked from around the black wispy being and Nautilus stared into its face with his luminescent eyes.

"Carrre to tessst my grrrip? Now tell meee... Wherrre arrre theyyy?" he demanded. The creature sputtered for a moment before replying crudely.

"I thought I made that clear... Perhaps not enough for your thick skull..." The captain's clasp tightened around the neck it held, provoking an actual response. "They are dead Nautilus. Your family suffered while you wandered about..." A metallic fist slammed against the side of the ghastly face mocking him.

"NOT themmm... My 'crew'... Where ARRRE they?!"

"Mostly dead. Some insane or scattered. One rests soundly within the sanctity of the League of Legends... Looks like you won't be getting the pleasure of revenge, will you?" Nautilus roared in frustration and tossed the being aside. He slammed his foot into the ground like an upset child throwing a tantrum and a shockwave resonated throughout the abandoned tavern. The blast tore down the poorly boarded walls and further shattered windows. The diver walked out of the tavern and set off with only one destination in mind; the League of Legends.

* * *

"Where is he now, Nocturne?" the High Council member asked of his assailant.

"En route to the League of Legends, just as planned," the spectral substance replied, having dropped the spooky charade he had been putting on previously.

"Perfect. As for our end of the bargain, Thresh will be arriving at the Shadow Isles shortly. Less so alive than perhaps preferred, but he is on the way."

"Dead works. We have our methods," Nocturne replied before shifting away into the black veil about them.


End file.
